To You and You Alone
by Kenjiro Minami
Summary: Tremendous, terrible, horrible deaths. These kinds of visions haunted the young child named Pierre, which led to him losing his sight. Seven years after the start of such visions, he finds himself with a letter, and is led to Camp Half-Blood. Once a powerful Oracle, he now tells his story, from his sightless point of view. ***Alternate Universe, canon dont exist (Percy, etc.)***
1. Here it is

Hey. My name is Pierre Hendrickson-Fitts. My boyfriend... Husband. I keep forgetting we got married this weekend. My husband, Roman Fitts-Hendrickson, suggested that I do this, write my story. It's a little hard to do, writing this not in braille. Good thing I took all those computer classes before I lost my sight.

Oh yeah. I forgot to mention. I'm blind.

I also forgot to mention that I know when I'm going to die. Amazing, right? Yeah. That knowledge is what made me tear out my eyes.

...Let me start over.

Hi. I'm Pierre Hendrickson-Fitts. I have a lovely husband named Roman Fitts-Hendrickson, who likes to call me Pierce, as he cant pronounce my very _pompous_ French name correctly. I'm your average gay middle aged asshole with only one or two people to love. I don't have a job because nobody wants to hire a guy who needs to wear cloth over the parts of his face between his forehead and nose in order to hide the scars of traumas past that are around where his eyes should be, but I like to think that being an asshole is a job all on its own.

You want me to explain how I lost my sight? Well, I might as well, but later on in my story. I'm going to go back to the beginning of me, where my story truly starts.

Now I'm not going to date all the way back to the big fucking bang, when atoms just decided to fuck each other in the middle of space by pure chance and caused an explosion of millions more. No. I'm not going to go all the way back there. I don't even know if what I said is correct. I didn't major in science, let alone pass a single one of my science classes.

No. Just no. I'm starting at about twenty years before I was conceived. Yeah that seems good.

So twenty years before I was a lonely egg sitting in a uterus or whatever, my mom was not even an egg in a uterus. She was still in that weird female version of balls, swimming with all the other unfertilized eggs inside my grandma. Three years later, she was the lucky egg to be fertilized with my grandfathers sperm during the beautiful acts of love and life we humans call _sex._ And there you have it! My mom, who was later named Ameta Guplin, was conceived.

Ameta grew up as an only child, daughter of a priest of a religion we shall dare not name, but dare do discuss. They were more of a cult of sorts. I dont know much about them, but from the couple of stories my mother told on the rare occasions, I can tell you that they were hardcore on hating gays and racists, claiming they "accepted all", but also shunned their Asian followers. Hated most of the United States presidential groups like Democratic, Liberal, Conservative, and half of the Republican lifestyle. They believed Jesus wasnt Gods son, but God himself, and that the only reason why he chose to be born as a human was so he could better understand our weaknesses so he can better control us. The followers of this cultish religion were taught to torture others who came to their doors selling new ideas of religion, to try and convert them into their little house or whatever. They'd beat their members if they stepped even an inch out of line, and that was exactly what happened to my mom.

My mother never agreed with the lifestyle my grandparents led, or the lifestyle that they taught. She wanted to do her own thing. She was miserable there. She did drugs behind everyones backs at the age of thirteen, had sex at fourteen, and, by the time she was turning fifteen, she was pregnant with her first child.

She tried to hide the pregnancy as much as possible, she had told me one day, because it was my grandparents fucked up religious belief that the first child must always be sacrificed in order of Gods will. Something to do with some guy named Abraham or something. He had a son he was supposed to sacrifice or something. I dont know. Never really cared too much about that part. But six months in she was caught. Her father and his fellow cultists locked her in a cellar for the remainder of her pregnancy, and, upon birth, Ameta's first child was killed.

Two months later, after the grievance had passed, Ameta was on the road, running away from home. She was depressed, miserable, and she wanted the world to know about the cult of which she had just escaped from. But the only way she knew how was through poetry, so at the age of sixteen, Ameta was performing written word on stages in the large city of New York, and selling small books of horror filled poems at the door.

Five months later, a god decided to visit Earth. His shift was done in the sky, and it was now night. He wanted to tour the big apple before he flew his chariot once more at the crack of dawn once it reached North America, which has been the gods domain for near a couple thousand years now. He was at a late night restaurant, eating an exquisite meal, the light inside the place seemingly drawn to him before radiating off ten times brighter. The person at the table next to him was reading a book, one that had been crudely put together, the god had most likely noticed, and using his godly abilities, he made note that it was a book of poems.

Curious now, as poetry was his domain, the god asked to borrow the book the other man was reading, to which the mortal promptly responded that he could keep it; he was done reading anyways.

Grateful, the god began to read, and thus began to fall in love with the woman behind the words. They were dark, mysterious, and spoke volumes while at the same time saying nothing. The formatting was unique, the tone offsetting yet lovable. Immediately the god felt he had to find this woman, and find her he did.

The god knew not the womans age when he fell in love with her, nor did he care to know. It took months of pursuit from the gods end to get Ameta, who by this time had changed her name to Amanda Hendrickson, to notice him, months that he spent looking at nobody else but her, a rare thing for this god who knew how to get around. And, finally, when the woman was seventeen, his efforts paid off. She finally acknowledged him for the feelings he felt to her, and, two months later, I was conceived.

Long and terrible, yeah? But it had a happy ending, I suppose. Problem is, my mother never learned that the man she fell in love with was a god, a Greek one at that, and she never knew that four months before she gave birth, he'd go running after a man who knew how to sing. She never had the slightest hint or clue as to the extent of the horrors that her second child was going to face. She never knew any of this, and, damn, I sure wish she had.

Anyways. After her second child was born, at the precise stroke of midnight on December 21st of 1999, Amanda Hendrickson decided to adopt a Christian behavior and religion as best as she could, feeling that, at the base of her parents religion, the one religion she knew, Christianity was most closely related, yet nowhere near as brutal. So she raised her son on this belief, and when he was three, she married a man with charm. For a year, they lived a happy life living in a beach house in Florida, Amanda, her son named Pierre Hendrickson, and the man she had married, who I shall not name because even I don't remember. That's how short of a time he had been in our lives.

Almost a year later, Amanda had become pregnant with her third child. She and her husband were ecstatic, though little four year old me couldn't have cared less. A new sibling? Cool. Good on you mom. Hope it's a boy.

Sadly, though, she had complications during birth. The child was born two months premature, and sick beyond control. The baby girl lasted no more than forty minutes outside the womb from which she had been torn. The baby girl had made no sound after exiting besides the rattling gasps of deaths hand at her throat before finally, finally being put to rest and ceasing all noise.

Amanda and her husband were devastated beyond compare. Hours after her death, they named the baby girl Hope Hendrickson-Potts, a name I later thought was terrible, as there had been no hope for the small child that would have been my sister- and they planned an immediate cremation for the tiny human that never even opened her eyes.

Fast forward to a year later and more tragedy struck our little family of three. A total of about four miscarriages were thrown somewhere in the middle, with a total of five children lost. A month after that year, Amandas husband was diagnosed with late stage bone cancer, something already hard to treat but now impossible at the stage he was at. A month after that, he died, and Amanda was forced to take her only son and move off of the beach paradise we lived on to escape all the terrible memories that were there. She moved to a small town with a population below two hundred a week after her husbands death, and six year old me grew to know that run down town as home from then on out.

Are we happy yet? No. Of course we aren't. But we were as happy as we could be. My mom and I against the world, with a whole lot of fucking issues from me.

My mom taught me under Christian beliefs in this small town. I mean, she did before, but more so now in this town where everyone knew their neighbor and even the guy on the other side of town. We started going to church every Sunday, and, upon my eighth birthday, I had been baptised.

Now, did that mean much to me? Of course not. I ended up exactly like my mom in her teenage years, except worse.

The night I turned ten, I had my first vision,or prophecy, if you may. In it, someone with an Oregon license plate had been speeding down the street in front of my house, going about seventy in the twenty five zone. Suddenly, their tire hit one of the many potholes there, and had made them lose control of their car. They had swerved out of control, and hit the light post in front of my house. Stupidly, this person hadn't been wearing a seatbelt, and the ended up flying through the front window. Already bloody, this person also miraculously managed to fly through my window as well, and their already mutilated body became worse and was now inside my bedroom. The light post that they had so kindly crashed into fell, thankfully missing my house, but killed the neighbors dog.

This person driving the Oregon state licensed vehicle had had a baby in the backset, who, sadly, due to the trauma of the stop and the force of the things falling on it from that weird space between the back window and the back of the backseats, had been crushed to death.

Now, this appeared to me as a vivid as all hell dream on the night of my tenth birthday. Of course, I was fucked up as all shit from it. I woke up in a snap as soon as the dream would let me, crying and screaming for my mother, who then promptly came to my rescue, calming my poor soft, innocent and racing heart down. She took me to her room, and for two weeks I slept with her every night she didnt work until the dream stopped haunting me. And as soon as they stopped haunting me, it happened. The man and his baby died inside and outside of my house, exactly as I had dreamed, light post killing my neighbors dog and everything, down to the very smallest and last detail.

At that point I was traumatized. I didnt sleep for two whole nights, until my next vision forced me to take a small ten second nap.

My art teacher was next to die. She had been pregnant before my vision, but now there were complications during her childbirth inside my vision, and neither of them survived.

Low and behold, two months later, what I saw in my dream happened in the real world, and I knew it couldn't be much of a coincidence. I had seen four people die on two separate occasions, and they had died exactly as I had seen. It was no longer a stroke of luck, but a gift. A gift that was a curse thrown upon me. A curse that had changed my life forever.

...I must go, now. My man needs me to sleep, the big softie he is. I will continue this tomorrow. I need to finish my story before it is too late. I know exactly when I am supposed to die, and it is soon... You cant see this until after I die, and if you do,please, do not talk about it.

For now, my new chapters will consist of a whole bunch of enters. I dont know how to start a new page without asking for help. And yes... Chapters. I am making a book out of this for you to read. You asked for my story, and now you shall get my life. I just hope it turns out alright...


	2. Here I Am

I apologize... I may not be able to write the ending of my story for you. It seems I won't be able to write for two days... Two days that will bring me two days closer to my death... But I shall try. Just means no more late night cuddles...

Where did I leave off? Was it the vision of war? I don't even know... I'm just going to start this one at when I was thirteen.

At thirteen, I had started drinking, and heavily. The visions were just too much for me at that point. They had ruined my world, made me lose my innocence. I stopped going to school for an entire month, started smoking weed, started smoking cigarettes. Whatever would help me I did. But it wasn't enough.

The visions started to become more frequent and closer to reality. There were still some that didn't happen until months out, but now I wasn't seeing things that just happened around me. I was seeing everywhere, and everyday. I was going crazy, and there was nothing to stop my spiral into insanity.

And so insane I went.

I started to have episodes where I would black out during the terrible visions and start breaking things. I smashed photos, televisions, windows, china, virtually anything I could get my hands on was broken within ten seconds during my episodes. I got violent and started hitting walls, screaming and screaming, crying and yet never shedding a tear. Wishing for the nightmare to be over.

During one of my episodes I grew to be so violent that I attacked a man on the streets. It happened while I was hanging out with my girlfriend at the time. Damn did she have a nice body...

...Anyways. I was hanging out with her, dining at the food court in the local plaza, and all of a sudden my vision was just taken over by a "prophecy" or some shit. Next thing I knew, I was being dragged off the towns second and third grade teacher by cops, people screaming around me to stop. I was told later that I had just suddenly gone berserk, and leapt on the man, and then just started clawing at him, tearing off layers of skin with my nails and teeth like a wild animal. They say it was a miracle he survived. That's how badly I had hurt him.

It was an immediate court trial, about two or three days after the incident, as not much happened in that small town, and we still had a court office. During my trial, I could barely stand. I was so overcome with shock at what I had done. I didn't understand. I was confused. I didn't remember. Are they sure they had the right guy?

I wouldn't have been convinced, had they not shown me a picture. It was a terrible shot, clearly taken as a freeze frame from a camera outside of one of the shops, but it showed the animal that I had become perfectly. My blond hair had been matted down on one side with glistening crimson blood. My vibrant blue eyes were wild, wide open and bloodshot. My hands were flying, flinging blood everywhere as I clearly paced up and down the side of the plaza I was on. You could see the body that I had just mutilated in the top left corner of the screen, clearly writhing in pain even in the still frame shot. You could even tell that I had crossed insanity at that point, and I had done exactly that.

 _That's me,_ I had thought when I had seen that photo, mouth agape and horrified. _That's me._

Immediately I pled insanity, that I wasn't even aware of what I had been doing. I was crying, terrified at that point. Terrified of what I had done, and of what I could do in the future. And so I was convicted of insanity, and sent to the state asylum for two years. Two terrible years where pills and "treatment" numbed the pain I was feeling but never numbed the visions. They just detached me from them, made me less... Aware of them. They changed who I was for two years, and, in some ways, I was grateful, and in others, I hated it.

I had been an alcoholic at that time, and addicted to nicotine and being high. The come off was terrible. They made me cut cold turkey, and my thirteen year old brain went into a terrible withdrawal that landed me in a padded room for the first six months of my stay. But we won't talk about that, as withdrawals aren't important in my story.

During the last six months of my stay I played it safe. I pretended to be better. I forced convincing smiles on my face because I just wanted to leave. I wanted to see my mom again. I wanted to go home. I ignored the visions that were coming to me every hour at that point, ignored the deaths that I knew would happen,some around me, and others on the other side of the world. I just ignored them. Pretended everything was alright with the world, when I clearly knew everything was wrong with the world. And pretending got me out on time, two months after my fifteenth birthday.

Two months after that I started seeing different visions, visions where I was the one who would die in the end. They were all different, save for the time of death and the day that they occured. Those were always the same. I'm not going to write them down quite yet though... Just in case you see it. I don't want any spoilers. All I will say is that it is soon, and if I make sure to write my story everyday, it shall occur soon after the end of the story.

Anyways... These visions were awful to me. Showing me all the ways I could die, from being crushed by space debris that destroyed the block that I would be living on at the time, to simple conditions like a heart attack. Either way, they all ended at the same time, each older version of Pierre had the same expiration time and date, and that brought back the terror the visions from before had given me. And i couldn't take a second more of it. So I tore out my eyes, as a last, desperate attempt at preserving what little sanity I had left. And it worked. I never had a vision again after that. And gods am I happy about that.

About an hour later my mom found me, casually drinking her whiskey in the kitchen. There was a bloody trail from the living room to the kitchen, and things that I had ran into were knocked over. My eyes were still in their sockets but destroyed beyond repair. I had done the only smart thing I could have done that day, and had torn up my shirt and put it around my eyes to stop the bleeding that was occuring. My mom had screamed when, I can only assume, when she saw the torn and bloody shirt around my face, and the only thing my current drunk mind did was raise the whiskey bottle in a cheer before I chugged the last half of it down. Damn, did it feel good to be drunk again at that time. I'm more than certain I had needed it, too.

Soon after I finished off the whiskey, I had fallen, the pain and the alcohol finally catching up to me, my adrenaline finally gone. And that was the last time my brain made itself unaware as my mom dialed 911 and an ambulance came.

I was hospitalized for two months after I tore out my eyes. The hospital had to surgically remove the remainder of what I had failed to tear out, and my mom refused to let them put in new ones without my approval. And I didn't approve. I tore out my own eyes for a reason, not just because I had finally been pushed over the edge of insanity!

They tried to stitch the claw marks around my eyes as best as they could so it wouldn't scar terribly, but I don't think their best was enough. To this day, I still need to wear a cloth over my eyes so people don't stare at me. That's how bad the scarring is still. No ointments, no oils... Allergic to all the best. That was the day where I became relieved of my abilities, but then cursed in another way. Blind and scarred, forever to be looked at as an outcast, that guy who had a psychological breakdown in the food court at the plaza, and who, upon the end of his sentence, had another breakdown and tore out his eyes. And there was no way to change it. I couldn't just convince people that I was back to normal- they could just look at me and tell I wasn't.

So that's when I did it.

That's when I made the change. I was no longer as happy as I could possibly be considering all I had seen, but I became the ass that I am, drawn off and secluded from the rest of the world. I dropped out of school, started hiring young prostitutes from out of my city, started fucking everyone with a vagina that would let me fuck them, started drinking more than I had before, doing more drugs, and getting arrested for scandalous behaviour every now and again, though in different cities with different prostitutes every time.

My mom no longer let me outside of the house unless it was directly in the yard. By the time I was sixteen and a half, I was a prisoner in my own home.

And then it happened. A letter in the mail for me. On my seventeenth birthday it came. It was directed to me, my mom said, but when she opened it, it had been written in brail, a writing she still didn't understand how to read. But I knew. It was the only thing I could do while I was at home. And I remember exactly what it said.

 _To my son, from your true father,_

That's how it started, and already I was done with it. After all this time my father finally decided to contact me? Where was he when I had been going through all that shit? _This better be good,_ I remember thinking to myself as I continued to feel the different patterns that made up different letters in the strange language of brail.

 _I know what you have been through -_

No you don't.

I continued reading anyways.

 _The visions must be hard on you, my son._

And there was when I had become skeptical. How could anyone possibly know about the things I had been experiencing? I had never told anyone about them. Not even my own mother. Because I knew nobody would understand. And yet here this guy was, claiming to be my father, and also claiming to know what I was experiencing? Ridiculous.

I continued to read.

 _Even I must admit that I had a hard time with them when I was made the god of such visions._

Wait. Hold up. **God?** As far as I knew,there was only one god, unless this was some troll from the internet spying on me with a secret camera during my visions when I still had them. Wouldn't be surprised.

Again, I kept reading, not for the sake of the letter anymore, but now for my own humor.

 _That's why I made Delphi my oracle. So that I no longer had to deal with such visions. But, my boy, I know yours have been nothing but unpleasant. I know you have seen your own death -_

Okay. Somebody was **definitely** spying on me. Out of habit, I looked around, but then scolded myself for doing so, as I hadn't been able to see for near two years now.

You already know that I kept reading so lets just cut to the chase. Or whatever.

 _-and i know seeing your own death must be hard, and that is why you took your own gift away from you by tearing out your eyes._ _But you must keep some part of your gift, and that is why I, Apollo, am choosing to aid you by giving you the gift of echoes._

As I read over that part, I felt an odd tinge in the back of my neck, though I just dismissed it as a kink working its way out after I read that this guy called himself Apollo. What a joke.

 _You'll start to notice that you will be able to see things that have been repeated time and time again with little variation, things like eating a meal, reading a book, driving a car. But they'll be like your visions at first, coming to you when you don't want then to. You're going to need to learn to control them, Pierre, to better benefit you, and, maybe, one day, you'll be able to learn how to see by only using these echoes._

Oh is that so? So, what you're saying is that now I have this mysterious gift called an ECHO, where I can see things that are done everyday. Great. Because I needed to see an echo of people masturbating. Maybe I can learn different sex positions with this echo thing. Wouldn't _that_ be great.

Useless piece of trash.

 _I sent a letter to your mother asking her if she'd let you stay with me this summer, but I must let you know that you won't be staying with me, as I am not allowed to contact my children or meddle in their lives. But at some point all my children must go to where I am sending you this summer, Pierre. But the way your life was turning out, you would never have gone there, and for that I apologize._

 _I will be paying for the flight there, as well as anything else you may want -_

Sweet.

 _But only if you go. Otherwise I will refuse to pay for anything regarding you._

Douche.

 _I don't have much time left in writing this letter to you, my son. Just go to the location I asked your mother to send you to at the start of the summer, and all will be explained._

 _Signed,_

 _Apollo_

Now, naturally, I thought of this as a load of bullshit, but, damn, was I wrong.

...My dear husband is bound to be home soon. I've been writing this for hours now, ever since my love left for work. So here is where I am going to end the story for now. I can't continue this tomorrow, as my big softie will want me during his day off, as per usual, so I'll be seeing this keyboard here again then.


End file.
